Nolan kicked Elijah's cot."Dude, wake up!"
Elijah groaned, pulling a threadbare blanket over his head. "Damn, can't a man sleep in peace around here?"
"We're gonna be late. Move." Nolan yanked the blanket off, revealing Elijah's scowling face.
"Fine, fine." Elijah stretched, cracking his neck. "At least after today, no more sleeping in slums. Real beds. Real food. Maybe even a window that doesn't smell like piss."
Nolan's lips twitched. "Gods, I've missed mattresses."
They shouldered their meager packs and set off, the dawn light painting the academy's towering spires in gold. Meylin loomed ahead—its pale blue stone almost glowing, framed by cherry blossoms that scattered petals like coins. A noble's paradise.
Then—
"OYY, ELIJAH!"
They turned. Natski barreled toward them, his grin as sharp as the scar cutting through his eyebrow.
"Damn, you're loud," Elijah said.
"WHAT?" Natski cupped his ear theatrically.
"This is Nolan," Elijah said, jerking a thumb. "Nolan, this is Hothead."
Natski's fist connected with Elijah's shoulder. "It's NATSKI!"
"See? Hothead."Elijah rubbed his arm. "Punched me for no reason."
"You deserved it."
Nolan offered a hesitant smile. "Nice to meet you."
Natski squinted. "You a noble?"
"No."
"Didn't see you at trials."
"Nolan got in with payment," Elijah said breezily.
"Then how's he not—"
"Use your imagination," Elijah deadpanned.
Natski blinked. "I don't get it."
"My father was a knight," Nolan muttered.
"Ohhh." Natski lost interest instantly. "Let's go. I wanna see how shitty this place is."
The grand hall hummed with murmurs as students packed onto polished benches. At the podium stood Director Chris—a mountain of a man with a bald head and a voice like grinding stone.
"Greetings, future magicians."His gaze swept the room, lingering . "For the next 3 years, you will be forged into something greater. Or you will break. Meylin does not coddle. Fail, and you're expelled. Underperform, and you're expelled. Our standards are not suggestions."
A pause. The noble kids smirked; the commoners stiffened.
"Work hard. Make allies. But remember—" His eyes locked onto Elijah's. "This is not a charity."
The applause was uneven.
The West Dorms were… functional. Gray stone, narrow halls, but blessedly isolated . A stern-faced instructor—Alfron Ayske, a combet teacher for first years combat teacher—barked orders:
"Single rooms. Meals in the hall left. Training grounds right. First floor: first-years. Second: second. Third: third. Respect your upperclassmen, and each other ."
Elijah claimed a room at the end of the hall. The bed creaked when he flopped onto it, but it was his. No rats. No drafts. He grinned at the ceiling. "I'm gonna be so damn rich."
Sleep took him instantly.
---
BANG BANG BANG.
"Elijah, wake up!" Nolan's voice.
BANG.
"I swear—"
A sudden whoosh of heat. Elijah's eyes flew open as Natski's voice rang out: "Step back. I'll handle this."
"YOU'LL BLAST THE DOOR OFF—"
"And?"
Elijah yanked the door open, blinking blearily. "The hell's wrong with you two?"
Natski and Nolan stood mid-scuffle—Natski's palms glowing, Nolan gripping his wrist like a lifeline.
Silence.
Elijah sighed, "let's go"
They arrived at the dining hall and took their seats. The clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations filled the air.
Natski stabbed his meat with a fork. "So, where're you guys from?"
**Nolan wiped his mouth. "I'm from the East—a town called Nkrsen. My grandmother raised me there until she…" He hesitated. "Until she passed. After that, I traveled with my father." He glanced at Natski. "You?"
Natski's grin didn't reach his eyes. *"North. Zelenski."
Nolan's fork froze mid-air. "That's the town where—?"
"Where bandits burned everyone alive to send a message? Yeah. Natski's voice was flat.
A beat of silence.
"How did you… escape?" Nolan asked softly.
Natski's fingers tightened around his cup. Flames flickered in his pupils for a split second a memory: His mother's bloody smile, an arrow protruding from her chest as she shoved him into the cave. "Hide, Natski. Like we practiced." The scent of charred flesh. Screams muffled by thunder.
"Natski?"
He blinked. The dining hall snapped back into focus. "Sorry. Zoned out." He forced a laugh. "Anyway, shit happens."
Nolan's face paled. "I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry."*
"Don't be." Natski tore into his bread. "Was a long time ago."
Nolan turned to Elijah, who'd been silent. "What about you?"
Elijah stood abruptly, tray in hand. "See you tomorrow." He walked away without another word.
Nolan stared after him. It must be a difficult subject. Now that I think of it, I barely know anything about him.
Natski snorted. "Dude's got more secrets than a whorehouse ledger."
Natski lowered his voice. "How do you even know him?"
Natski leaned back.
So Nolan told him.
Next Morning
Elijah woke at dawn. He dressed mechanically buttoning the stiff academy uniform, strapping his dagger to his thigh—and opened the door.
Natski and Nolan stood there, fists raised to knock.
Nolan gaped."You're… awake? Before us?"*
Natski rolled his eyes."Jesus, Nolan. It's not a miracle."
Nolan crossed his arms."It is. He slept through a fire alarm once."
Elijah shoved past them. "Shut up. It's too early for your yapping."
They trailed after him, Natski and Nolan bickering like children as the sun crested the academy's spires.
They arrived at Class 1A.
Elijah noted the room's sterile air like nobles had scrubbed the walls with perfume. Students sat quietly, awaiting the instructor. Even Natski and Nolan shut up as they entered.
Arthur, whom Elijah hadn't seen since the trials, sat at the front left desk. Where's he been hiding?
The back-left desk stood empty. Elijah claimed it. Natski and Nolan took their seats nearby.
As Elijah sat, a pink-haired girl beside him smiled. "Hi, I'm Mia."
"Oh, hey. Elijah."
She opened her mouth to speak again—
Mr. Ayske entered. "Greetings. I'm your homeroom and combat instructor. Call me Mr. Ayske." His voice was gravel wrapped in steel. "You'll have four classes: Combat (magic and martial arts), Magic Theory, Magic Practicals, and General Studies (world knowledge, crisis handling, etc.)."
He scanned the room, then jerked his chin toward the door. "Outside. I'll assess your skills with 1v1 fights."
The class filed onto the training grounds.
Mr. Ayske pointed. "Arthur and Michael. Fight."
Murmurs erupted. A student protested, "Sir, isn't that unfair?"
"Mmm." Ayske's expression didn't change.
"I mean… that's Mike. You've heard of him, right?"
"And Arthur," Ayske said, "is a genius even among commoner prodigies."
"But—"
"Are you prepared?" Ayske ignored the objection.
Natski grinned. "Heh. Show them what you've got."
"Yeah," Elijah added.
Mia sidled up. "He won't win."
Natski scowled. "Who asked you?"
Elijah shot him a look. "Relax, Natski. Sorry about him."
"No problem." Mia shrugged.
Michael cracked his neck. "Well? Come on. I don't have all day."
The fight began.
They stood motionless, eyes locked in silent tension. The air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation as neither fighter made the first move.
Finally, Michael exhaled sharply. "Well, since you're not going to attack..."
In a burst of movement, he lunged forward, leg snapping out in a vicious kick aimed at Arthur's ribs. But before his foot could connect
Whoosh.
Arthur vanished, reappearing behind Michael in the blink of an eye. His fist lashed out, cracking against Michael's jaw with enough force to send him stumbling forward.
"Oh? Is this the great Michael I've heard so much about?"* Arthur remarked coolly, shaking out his hand.
Michael rubbed his jaw, an amused grin spreading across his face. "Wow. Good display."
Then the real fight began.
Michael became a whirlwind of motion fists and feet flying in a relentless barrage. But Arthur dodged with effortless precision, his body swaying and weaving between attacks like a leaf on the wind.
Crack!
Arthur's counter kick slammed into Michael's ribs. Before he could recover, a devastating combo of punches and elbows rained down, each strike landing with brutal efficiency.
"Come on!" Arthur shouted, his usual composure cracking. "With how highly they speak of you, there's no way this is all you've got!"
From the sidelines, Elijah raised an eyebrow. "I never thought I'd see the day Arthur lost his cool."
Natski snorted. "Yeah, no kidding."
Michael stretched his neck, rolling his shoulders. "Fine, fine. I was just testing you." His smile turned predatory. "You ready?"
He moved.
This time, Michael's speed nearly doubled. Arthur barely managed to dodge the first few strikes, tapping into his own reserves of speed to keep up. Their movements became a blur a deadly dance of lightning and instinct.
Then Michael landed the first solid hit a crushing gut punch that drove the air from Arthur's lungs. As he reeled back, Michael pressed the advantage, fist cocked back for a finishing blow
Only for Arthur to twist mid-stagger and deliver a spinning kick that sent Michael flying.
Before Michael could hit the ground, Arthur was already moving. Electricity crackled around his fist as he charged forward. "Lightning Punch!"
Michael reacted instantly, his own fist igniting with blue energy. Their attacks collided in a thunderous explosion of force, the shockwave kicking up a cloud of dust around them.
"Heh," Michael panted, grinning. "Didn't think your Lightning Punch would match mine. I'm impressed."
Something in Arthur's expression darkened. "Don't mock me."
He lunged again, leg lashing out in a vicious roundhouse. Michael ducked under the blow, only for Arthur's knee to rocket upward wreathed in crackling energy—and slam into his chin.
"Heh. Got you now," Arthur muttered, regaining his usual detached demeanor.
Without hesitation, he began gathering energy between his palms, the air humming with power. "Lightning Blast!"
The beam struck true, engulfing Michael in a dazzling explosion of light and force. Arthur turned his back, already walking away—
"Hey!"
Arthur froze.
As the dust settled, Michael stood unharmed, his entire body sheathed in dancing electricity. "You didn't think that would be enough, now did you?"
Arthur's eyes widened. "You survived that?"
"It was quite easy, actually." Michael smirked, brushing dirt from his shoulder.
Lightning erupted around Arthur in response, his stance shifting into something more dangerous.
What followed was a spectacle of speed and skill.
Michael moved like living lightning, each strike faster than the last. Arthur matched him blow for blow at first, but gradually, the gap became apparent.
"You're strong," Michael admitted between exchanges, "but I grew up training under the best lightning magic user. Someone like you—no matter how naturally gifted—could never beat me."
Arthur didn't respond. Instead, he stopped moving altogether.
Michael hesitated for just a fraction of a second
That was all Arthur needed.
He appeared directly in front of Michael, faster than thought itself. "Oh yeah?"
His foot connected with Michael's chest with bone-jarring force, sending him flying backward. Before Michael could recover, paralyzing currents locked his muscles in place.
"This again? That won't"
Arthur was already upon him, a sphere of concentrated lightning forming in his palm. "Here!"
The point-blank explosion sent Michael crashing to the ground, blood trickling from his mouth.
"You're strong," Arthur said calmly, "but I have more battle experience than you."
Slowly, shakily, Michael pushed himself up. "I... didn't expect that." He wiped his mouth, staring at the crimson stain on his hand.
A hushed murmur spread through their classmates. "No way..."
Michael's eyes flashed with irritation, but he quickly schooled his expression into a calm smirk. "The instructor was right about you," he said, his voice steady despite the tension.
Electricity began crackling around him once more, but this time it all converged onto his left fist. The glow intensified, shifting from pale blue to a brilliant, almost blinding azure. Arthur barely had time to register the change before—
Crack!
Michael was suddenly right in front of him. "Lightning Punch!"
Arthur reacted instinctively, channeling his own electricity into his arms to block. The force of the impact still sent him flying backward, his boots skidding across the dirt as he struggled to maintain balance. His arms throbbed from the shock.
Before he could fully recover, Michael was already moving again—this time with flames wreathing his leg as he launched a vicious kick. Arthur barely managed to raise his arms in time, the heat searing his skin even through the block.
Michael didn't let up. Strike after strike rained down—punches wreathed in lightning, kicks blazing with fire—each one forcing Arthur deeper into defense. His breath came in ragged gasps as he dodged and blocked, his movements growing sluggish.
Then, with a grunt of effort, Arthur unleashed his counter: "Coujen!"
A pulse of raw energy exploded outward in all directions, throwing Michael back several feet. Dust and debris kicked up from the impact, obscuring the battlefield for a brief moment.
But Michael wasn't done. The moment he regained his footing, flames erupted from his legs, propelling him forward in a spinning kick that carried the full momentum of his fiery dash. Arthur couldn't dodge in time—
Thud!
The kick connected with brutal force, sending Arthur crashing to the ground. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he coughed, his vision swimming. He tried to push himself up, bracing on one knee, but Michael was already upon him again, fist crackling with electricity as he prepared to deliver the final blow—
"Enough."
The instructor's hand clamped around Michael's wrist, stopping the attack mid-swing.
Elijah and Natski stood frozen, eyes wide. Neither could believe what they'd just witnessed.
Arthur staggered to his feet, his face twisted in fury. "No! We weren't done!" he spat, blood still trickling from his lip.
Two classmates moved to restrain him. "You are done," one said firmly. "Michael beat you. There was no coming back from that."
Arthur's jaw clenched, but deep down, he knew they were right. Even if the fight had continued, Michael still had more in the tank.
Michael then said as his opponent away, . "You said I wasn't used to battle? That's where you're wrong. I grew up fighting people who rivaled me—some even stronger. But you? You were always the strongest. You've never had to push yourself to the limit!"
Arthur did not respond. They both walked off.
The instructor wasted no time. "Elijah and Lydia. Step forward."
One of the classmates groaned. "Oh, come on, Instructor. What's your excuse this time?"
"Shut up!" the instructor snapped, his patience clearly frayed.
Natski and Nolan offered encouragement as Elijah trudged to the center of the field. "Good luck," they muttered, though neither sounded hopeful.
The moment the instructor signaled the start, Elijah lunged forward, throwing a flurry of punches and kicks. But Lydia dodged every single one with infuriating ease.
"I don't have time to waste," she said coldly.
Then thwack!
Her fist drove into Elijah's gut with pinpoint precision, striking with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. His eyes bulged for a split second before rolling back into his head. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the dirt.
"Take him off the field," the instructor ordered, unimpressed.
Michael arched an eyebrow. "You didn't hold back at all?"
Lydia shrugged. "I'm not like you. I give one hundred percent in every fight."
The Rest of the Matches
The sparring continued, but the results were much the same. Natski lost. Nolan lost. By the time the session ended, the air was thick with frustration and exhaustion.
Later - Infirmary
Elijah groaned as consciousness returned. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his nose, and the dull ache in his stomach served as a harsh reminder of his humiliating defeat.